


Like a Well-Tailored Suit

by notoneforreality



Series: QB-B3 007 Fest 2020 [11]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, 007 Fest 2020, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Q Doesn't Work for MI6, Autistic Character, M/M, Prompt Fill, Q has questions, Q is Autistic, Tailor's Shop, Tailoring, many suits died in the making of this fic, these poor suits, what has Bond been doing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoneforreality/pseuds/notoneforreality
Summary: The most interesting thing that happens at a tailor's shop, usually, is trying to work out the politics of all the posh families that come through and talk about each other. Then Mr Bond comes in with a suit that's been utterly ruined, somehow, and Q has a new interest at work.Mr Bond keeps coming back.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: QB-B3 007 Fest 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795726
Comments: 26
Kudos: 173





	Like a Well-Tailored Suit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for--  
> This prompt from the 2020 anon list: Though Q has his intellect and skills he never managed to get out big or catch MI6’s attention. He does some odd IT jobs here and there but mostly gets his money from the tailor shop he had helped out to finance part of his studies and stayed at when he finished. A handsome man requesting to fix a suit isn’t something odd to him, but when a certain short-cropped blond-hair starts to appear more frequent…was this blood on the suit?! (title idea: fitting like a well-tailored suit)

It’s the middle of a rainy Thursday, and Q is in the middle of fighting with the new inventory system he added to the shop’s computers yesterday, when the bell above the door tinkles and a tall, broad shouldered man strides in. 

“Hi,” Q calls over the counter. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The man nods and puts his hands into his pockets, loitering by the selection of ties that Ameera reorganised at the start of the week. A large white paper bag hangs from his arm, with the printed logo of a shop from a few streets away, and it swings a little every time the man moves, heavy with whatever’s inside it. 

Q tries another two more runs of his diagnostic code before giving up for now. It’s not a pressing issue, and there’s a customer waiting to be served. 

“How can I help you?” Q asks as he steps around the fancy wooden counter and towards the man. Although he got his job here originally for his computer skills, practically bringing the old-fashioned shop into the twenty-first century single-handedly, he had enough experience working for his mother’s little clothes shop that he was able to step in as a sales assistant when the spot opened up. It certainly pays better than the few freelance tech gigs he’s been able to get since graduating.

“I bought a suit from you a little while back,” the man says, “but I’m afraid I’ve been somewhat careless with it, and it’s in need of repair.” He opens the paper bag to reveal a charcoal grey suit, a few shades darker than the one the man is currently wearing, folded to fit.

Through many years of training in customer service, Q keeps his wince a mental thing. The folding is haphazard and Q can already count the creases that will appear if it stays folded this way any longer

“May I?” He holds his hands out for the bag, and the man hands it over.

Q lifts the jacket out and shakes it, then nearly weeps when a whole sleeve falls off. He doesn’t, because he really is quite well trained in customer service, but he wants to. He recognises Amelia’s precise top stitching on the lapels and immediately resolves to make sure that either Roxy or Jamal gets this repair job, so that Amelia doesn’t have to see how badly her work has been butchered.

“You’ve definitely done a number on it.”

The man has the grace to look chagrined. “There was an incident,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate.

Q very badly wants to know what sort of incident results in a whole sleeve torn from a very nice tailored suit. 

Instead of asking, however, he lays the better part of the jacket over the closest table, and fishes the sleeve out from the bag. The sleeve is somehow worse by several orders of magnitude. It looks like someone first ripped it from the rest of the jacket, then dragged it through a field after a downpour, then pulled it through a gorse bush, and perhaps attempted to feed it to a dog as a finale. Q stares at it. 

He has so many questions.

“When do you need it returned by?” he asks, choosing to do his job instead of indulge his curiosity. The man isn’t quite their usual clientele; although he’s definitely upper class, he hasn’t arrived with an entourage of assistants to try to bully the shop into promising impossibly quick production times.

“Ideally within the month,” the man says, which is probably the most generous time Q has ever been given for a repair. 

“We can have it done in two weeks,” Q says. Realistically, it can be done in one week, but if the man is offering leeway, Q is going to seize it with both hands, if only for the sake of Amelia and Roxy, who are already swept off their feet with orders for the Hunters’ fancy dinner on the twenty-first.

“I’d like to make an appointment for a fitting, too, if I can?”

Slowly, trying not to show how many emotions he’s having about this suit jacket, Q folds the garment back up — hasty folding is nowhere close to the worst thing it’s been through — and swaps it for the trousers. They, at least, have escaped the ‘incident’ with nothing more than some minor patches of dirt and fallen hems.

While he’s surveying the trousers, he runs through the bookings calendar in his head.

“We have a spot available for measurements now, if you’re not busy,” he says. He should be able to get the appointment done with at least fifteen minutes to spare, in which he can try wrangling the inventory program, again, before his shift ends. When the man nods, Q drapes the whole suit over his arm and heads for the door to the workroom. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He waves to Amelia, but leaves the suit on Roxy’s table for her to see when she comes back from her lunch break. Then he grabs a measuring tape and returns to the shop floor to guide the man to one of the spacious fitting rooms off to one side.

“If you’ll remove your jacket, sir?”

“Bond, James Bond,” the man says, shucking the suit jacket he’s currently wearing (in much better condition than the one Q just left in the workroom) so that he’s left in a pale blue shirt, the navy tie tucked into his waistband.

With the jacket gone, Q is suddenly and painfully aware of the fact that Mr Bond’s broad shoulders are accompanied by very solid biceps. Q blinks and actually looks up for more than half a second of distant polite greeting, and immediately regrets the decision.

Mr Bond is very attractive.

Q had known, when he first took a permanent position working with the customers of Labelle Co., that he would have many close interactions with attractive men. Most of the time, it’s not an issue, because the clients of Labelle Co. are generally the sort of rich that forget manners unless it’s to impress people richer than they, and Q finds that any sort of physical attraction is nullified by their behaviour.

Mr Bond, however, is possibly the most gentlemanly customer he’s dealt with in his four years at the shop,  _ and  _ he’s attractive. It’s a dangerous combination, and Q busies himself with measuring Mr Bond’s inseam in an attempt to hide the furious burning across his cheeks. That doesn’t do much good, because it requires kneeling down, which puts him roughly face-to-crotch with Mr Bond.

“I like your tie, by the way. Suits your eyes,” Mr Bond says, and Q startles, narrowly avoiding punching him in the crotch. 

“Thank you,” he says faintly, and starts wrapping the tape around the calf closest to him. The tie was a present from Ameera for his birthday two months ago, a dark blue shot through with deep purple and studded with constellations. It’s his second favourite tie, just beaten by the wine one with polka dots that are actually tiny cat paws. “We have it in stock if you’d like to purchase it for yourself.”

The noise that comes from above him is vaguely amused, and Q moves up to the thigh, then realises that he hasn’t made a note of the last two measurements and has to fish in his inner pocket for his notebook and pen.

Q survives the rest of the measuring, tagging along in the wake of Mr Bond’s polite conversation (which doesn’t contain an explanation for what happened to the other suit), and then beats a dignified retreat to behind the till for the conversation about Mr Bond’s specifications.

“I don’t supposed you could add an extra couple of inches around the chest?” Mr Bond asks, after he’s already asked for a pocket hidden in the lining.

Q raises his eyebrow. “What, so the secret spy gun you’re planning on hiding doesn’t ruin the lines of the jacket?” 

There’s a heartbeat of static, and then Mr Bond laughs and Q smiles as he finishes totting up the details in the tab.

They finish final arrangements for Mr Bond’s next fitting and when his repairs will be ready for collection, and he hands over half of Q’s monthly rent for the repairs without fuss, which cements the fact that he’s wealthy. Not that he would be here if he weren’t, but he doesn’t have the same air to him as most of the people Q deals with on a daily basis.

When Mr Bond finally leaves, Q slumps over the till and decides that inventory can wait until tomorrow. He’s only got five minutes left until the official end of his shift, and he thinks he’s mostly got away with it, until he hears some muttering in the back room.

“Q,” Roxy says, bursting through the door and brandishing the sleeve at him. “What the fuck is this?”

* * *

Q isn’t at work for Mr Bond’s next fitting, and Ameera calls after to say that Mr Bond had been disappointed he wasn’t working. Q tells her not to be an idiot and tries to ignore the heat in his face, because nothing’s going to happen here, even if he were interested. She says she’s not being an idiot and she made sure Mr Bond’s next appointment was when Q would be working.

Of course, Q forgets all about it, and is almost completely blindsided by Mr Bond’s appearance in the shop a couple of weeks later. 

It’s sunny outside, today, and Mr Bond doesn’t have a jacket on, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Q’s brain immediately has a brief scuffle between the side that is furiously jealous of being able to dress down so as to escape the heat, the side that is maybe dying a small amount because the look is a good one on Mr Bond, and the side that just wants to be a rational person and do his job.

That side wins out, but only just; the other two continue to squabble in the back of Q’s mind.

“Mr Bond, it’s nice to see you, again,” he says, and has to concentrate very hard on the fact that this is a generic greeting he says to every returning customer. 

“It’s nice to see you, again, too,” Mr Bond says, almost immediately shattering Q’s resolve. “It was a shame you weren’t here for my last appointment.”

“Well, hopefully today you’ll be able to take your suit home with you,” Q says, and then notices the white paper bag in Mr Bond’s hand. Ah. “Is there anything else we can help you with, before I go and get your outfit?”

Mr Bond lifts up the bag, and Q takes a deep breath before looking inside. It’s another suit, this one a sapphire blue, and Q doesn’t even bother having opinions on how haphazardly it’s been folded into the bag before he lifts it out.

Wonder of wonders, the jacket remains intact when he shakes it out, although there’s a gash running across the top of one of the sleeves with dark stains around it. Q considers the fact that the sleeve is still there an improvement on the last one and doesn’t comment, instead reaching down to take out the trousers.

There are more dark stains on the trousers, and a horrible warp at the bottom of one leg, where it looks like someone’s tried to make them flares by just pulling at the weave. The hems are ripped, again, as are several belt loops.

Q looks up at Mr Bond with a carefully blank face, and Mr Bond smiles back at him, lips ticked up at one corner, mirroring the slant of his shoulders.

“When do you need this one repaired by?” Q asks.

“Within a month,” Mr Bond says.

“We can do two weeks,” Q says, because Amelia’s on maternity leave so things are running a little slower than usual, but a month is still more than necessary. “Let me just take this through to the back and I’ll bring your suit out for you.”

Jamal and Roxy are both in the workroom when Q goes back, although Roxy is scrolling through her phone instead of working on the pair of trousers that are still under the needle of the sewing machine. Jamal looks up when he walks in and nods at his to-do pile, so Q sets the suit next to it, in an attempt to avoid the grime rubbing off on the less grievously injured garments already waiting for Jamal’s intervention.

“Did he fall off a cliff in that suit?” Jamal says incredulously, and Q just shrugs.

“Don’t ask me. Get Roxy to tell you about the last one Mr Bond brought in.”

“The last one wasn’t too bad, actually,” Roxy pipes in. 

Q stares at her. “The whole sleeve was off and looked like it had lost a dog fight.”

“No, that was the first time.” She makes a considering face. “Oh yeah, you weren’t here last time he was in. The lining had come apart from the jacket but the trousers looked brand new, so whatever he was doing, it was an above-the-belt deal.”

“The whole sleeve was off?” Jamal says, and Q flaps a hand at him.

“Where’s his new suit, anyway?”

The new suit is on the rails at the front of the work room, a blue several shades darker than the one sat on Jamal’s desk, and Q takes a moment to admire it objectively before Mr Bond gets his hands on it. Then he pulls himself together and pushes back onto the shop floor, where Mr Bond is waiting.

“Here you go, sir,” Q says, offering the outfit, and Mr Bond beams at him before disappearing into the closest fitting room.

Q busies himself attending to an older man come in to look at their selection of ties, then lets the new hire, Sam, put him through the till so he can see to Mr Bond.

When Mr Bond steps out of the fitting room, Q has to take several breaths before he can fix on his customer service smile and ask how it is.

The suit is a navy worsted with peak lapels and two dark blue buttons. It’s a little loose around the chest according to Mr Bond’s specifications but it still manages to fit well, especially across the shoulders. The trousers fall to just above the black leather oxfords Mr Bond is wearing, the hem sitting neatly where it’s supposed to, and the fit around the leg is precise and comfortable. 

Mr Bond twists and turns and picks his legs up a few times and Q concentrates very hard on the line of the collar at the back of his neck instead of the obscene things the trousers do for Mr Bond’s arse. He has to check the flaps, though, so he risks a glance down to the bottom of the jacket to check that Mr Bond’s increasingly violent movements aren’t pulling at the stitches in the side vents.

“It looks good, Mr Bond,” Q says, furiously trying to keep his voice in customer service mode.

He thinks he manages it, but then Mr Bond slants his whole body towards him and Q doesn’t dare look even close to his face.

“It feels good,” Mr Bond says, and Q can’t breathe.

After a moment, Mr Bond remembers his special details and starts flapping about with the jacket, first around the chest to check the extra fabric, and then fiddling with the lining at the bottom to find the invisible zip. The hidden pocket alone had taken Amelia two hours to work out how she was going to do it, with lining within lining within lining. Mr Bond seems please with it, though, so Q makes a note to tell Amelia that it was worth it.

“Excellent,” Mr Bond says, pushing the jacket back to put his hands in the trouser pockets and shift around a few times in various poses. Then he pulls one hand out and up to push his hair back, and Q blinks a few times when he realises that he’d tracked the movement most of the way and then got stuck at where the shoulders of the jacket are doing an exceptional job at highlighting the shoulders of the man.

Mr Bond buttons the jacket again and does some more ridiculous fighting moves that do nothing to dislodge the fastenings, which satisfies him. Then he checks all four outer pockets — the breast pocket, the two main pockets, and the ticket pocket he’d specifically requested — and nods decisively.

“This is perfect,” he says.

“If you’d like to get changed back into your own clothes, I can have everything sorted out for you to take home.”

Once again, Q retreats behind the counter for the final conversation with Mr Bond about paying for the new suit and the repairs.

“I didn’t catch your name, the last time I saw you,” Mr Bond says.

Q flushes. “It’s Q. Just Q.”

“Well, Just Q, thank you for your excellent service.”

“It’s no problem at all, Mr Bond. Are you planning on doing anything fancy in your new suit?” Q finds his customer service smile and conversation as he taps the screen and waits for Sam to return with the suit on hangers in a garment bag.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Mr Bond says, and Q blinks.

It takes him a moment to remember the joke he made last time about wanting extra room for a gun, and then he laughs, a little surprised that Mr Bond remembered. 

“Of course,” he says. “Do try to make it out alive. We’d hate to lose such a valued client.”

* * *

A week later, Mr Bond is back with another suit with the trousers completely destroyed, and two days after that he’s back already with the components of a suit, to which Q flatly says that he might as well just buy a new one, because repairing that would be the equivalent of starting from scratch. 

A week and a half after that, Mr Bond turns up for the first fitting of his new new suit, with the white paper bag hanging from the crook of his elbow.

Q eyes the bag, and then eyes a spot just past Mr Bond’s ear. At some point in the past three months, his interactions with Mr Bond have become more familiar, more friendly rather than professional. It’s a little disquieting, because it means Q is in unchartered territory with no Rules, but it’s nice. 

It means he doesn’t have to be quite so diligent about hiding his facial expressions, especially when Mr Bond is already stood with his hips at an angle, the shape of his body sheepish.

When he hands over the bag, Q almost doesn’t notice the fizz of something when their hands brush against each other, too busy trying to prepare himself for whatever Mr Bond has done to the suit that has him looking so sheepish before Q’s even looked. None of the others had earned more than a mildly chagrined look for a second or two, and they’d all been disasters.

He picks up the jacket first, as he does every time, and blinks at it. For a moment, from this angle, it looks undamaged. No sleeves fall off or look in danger of doing so, the collar and lapels are nicely pressed, both the buttons appear to be just as firmly sewn on as they would have been whenever they left whatever shop it came from (only the first of Mr Bond’s repairs had been from Labelle Co. originally).

Then Q shakes it, and a small spot of light appears on the back lining. On closer inspection, Q notices a hole in the suit just left of the lapel, and he changes his grip on the jacket so he can hold it up to the light, looking through the inside of the jacket out, which also gives him a view of the splotchy, dark stain on the lining.

Q stares at Mr Bond through the hole in the suit. A hole which looks frighteningly like a bullet hole. Mr Bond smiles at him, the curling, slow amusement almost familiar now, and Q doesn’t know what sort of emotions he’s supposed to be having in this situation.

Possibly the worst part of the whole thing (the hole thing) is that there is only one hole, an inch or so above the breast pocket, and nothing on the back of the jacket that indicates — if there was a bullet — that the bullet came out the other side.

“I think you need to be more careful with your suits, Mr Bond,” is all Q can think to say, and then he grabs the trousers and escapes to the workroom without even looking at them.

“The suit for today’s fitting is on the rack,” Roxy says, but Q makes a beeline for her anyway, shoving the hole in the jacket between her face and the waistcoat she’s working on.

“That’s a bullet hole,” she says.

“There’s blood on the lining as well,” Q tells her. “Do you think he’s part of the mob?”

Roxy scoffs, but she leans towards the jacket, obviously interested. 

Jamal looks over from where he’s working on the finishing touches for a set of tails that the client wants tomorrow. “Is this that Mr Bond bloke who brought in a pair of trousers that looked like they’d been used to mop up a crime scene?

“Yeah,” Roxy says, then nods her head in Q’s direction. “His fancy lover.”

Q sputters. “He’s not ‘my’ anything, let alone lover”

Roxy sits back in her chair. “That’s not what Ameera said.”

“Ameera hasn’t got long to live,” Q says, “and nor will you if you keep spreading this nonsense.” And then he goes out with the intent to throttle Ameera.

He doesn’t make it to Ameera, because she’s talking to a teenager by the shirts, and Mr Bond is waiting expectantly for Q, at which point Q realises that he hasn’t got the suit for Mr Bond to try on.

“Sorry, excuse me a moment,” he says and goes back to the workroom, ignoring the sniggers coming from Roxy and Jamal.

Armed with the sleek black suit, he returns to the shop floor and hands it over to Mr Bond for him to try on.

It’s a first fitting, so Q is able to keep himself in check by concentrating on the adjustments and comments that need to be noted for refining the fit, rather than being left to just stare at Mr Bond in the outfit. He moves pins, checks for any tight areas, fiddles with a couple of seams, retreating to a distance each time to see the overall effect. 

The whole time, Bond stands like a mannequin, still but pliable, shifting into whichever position Q needs him in whenever Q so much as taps him. He’s quieter today than usual, and Q finds he misses the conversation, even though it makes his job a little easier.

“How does that feel?” he asks, when he thinks he’s finished fixing and pinning everything.

“It’s perfect,” Mr Bond says, and Q can feel his gaze on him, even though he’s watching the hems of the trousers over the brown brogues.

“Wonderful,” Q says. “In that case you can get changed back into your own clothes, and we should have all final adjustments finished by next week.”

“I look forward to it,” Mr Bond says, and Q at least waits until he’s in the fitting room and can’t see him flee the scene.

* * *

The discovery that Q was also looking forward to seeing Mr Bond for the final fitting only comes with the realisation that Q is not going to be able to leave his bed any time soon. It’s the morning of Mr Bond’s appointment and Q’s supposed to be working until close, but he’s half blind with a migraine and even the tiniest movement sends pain lancing through his head. It takes all the energy he has to call Mr Labelle and explain that he won’t make it into the shop today, and then he spends the rest of the day slipping in and out of fitful sleep.

Q’s out of it for two days. At some point, Ameera comes over to make sure he’s drinking and to make him eat, and then she goes back to make sure Sam is coping with the shop to himself. 

Wednesday he stays home, anyway, just to make sure that he can get through a whole day without ending up vomiting because he moved too fast or something, and then on Thursday he returns to work feeling bright and ready for the day ahead.

Then Mr Bond walks in and Q has to recalculate a little.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Mr Bond says, blowing past Ameera and smiling at Q where he’s in the middle of returning the fabric scissors to the workroom. It might have knocked Q off his feet if he hadn’t already spotted the white bag on his arm. “I was sad to miss you the other day. Are you feeling better?”

“Much,” Q says. “What have you got for us today?”

Mr Bond ducks his head before he holds the bag out, and Q makes himself take the few steps towards him, lifting the bag out of Mr Bond’s hands and peeking inside. It’s the navy suit that Q helped fit him for, and Q has to take a moment in order to keep his head above the sudden flood of various emotions. Curiosity for one, irritation and sadness for another couple.

“What have you been doing?” Q finally asks, after months of determinedly keeping his questions to himself.

“I-” Mr Bond starts, and then several things happen in quick succession.

The bell above the door jangles, frantic and angry as the door slams against the backboard, a man barges in with a gun raised, and two loud shots ring out.

Mr Bond’s body slams into Q, who’s suddenly moving through treacle, and they both drop to the floor. Q’s head smacks against the wood and the body on top of him is restricting his breathing.

“Shit,” Mr Bond says, which Q only just hears above the roaring of his heart in his own ears. “This is my fault. Shouldn’t have made a habit.”

And then he snatches the heavy fabric scissors from Q’s hand and hurls them at the door.

The blades of the scissors bury themselves into the man’s shoulder and a wave of violent nausea crashes over Q. 

“Get behind the counter,” Mr Bond yells, but Q can’t move.

Ameera grabs him and drags him backwards, behind the solid wood of the counter. Gunshots crack around them and Q rocks in place, his mind racing with fifty million trains of thought all rushing along three tracks and just narrowly missing each other: the clothes will the damaged; the display tables will be ruined; will he get those scissors back; does he want those scissors back; will Mr Bond be okay; is he involved in the mob; why are they here; why hasn’t the security system gone off yet?

The security system.

“Oh shit. Shit shit shit,” Q says, and springs up from behind the counter, leaping across to the door to the workroom. It takes less than two steps, but they’re the longest and most terrifying steps of his life, and then he’s through the door and panting with the effort of crossing just those four feet of space.

“What the  _ fuck  _ is going on out there,” Jamal says, his voice a little wild, but Q can’t blame him for that, not when he feels wild and hunted himself. 

“Guns,” Q bites out, and dives for the computer in the corner. He’d been messing around with the security system the day before he went off sick, upgrading it and improving the security on the till, and he’d thought there was something off with it. His tests, however, had come back clear. Apparently the real life test is proving harder to pass than the simulations.

His fingers fly over the keys, pulling up windows and shutting them down, running through hundreds of lines of code, letting his mind wander to the end of its tether until he spots the break in one of the functions. He pulls his thoughts back into his skull and frantically types out a patch for the gap. It’s a barebones thing, eschewing the automatic police contact, because someone would have done that by now, and instead triggering the emergency shutdown.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then he hears the rumbling, clanking judder, five times louder and faster than when he’s locking up the shop at the end of the night, and he hears the shutters crash down. Two more gunshots ricochet, then there’s an awful, hollow thud.

Then silence.

“You can come out now,” Mr Bond says.

Q stumbles past Roxy, slipping out of her grabbing hands, and shoves the door to the storeroom open, falling against the end of the counter as he stares at the wreck of the room. 

The man with the gun is on the floor with blood leaking into a pool beside his head, and the nausea swells again.

Slightly hysterically, he says, “Mr Labelle isn’t going to be happy.” And then Ameera is at his side, draped half over him and rubbing his arms fast and hard.

“I apologise for the disruption,” Mr Bond says. He fiddles with his cuffs, and then bends down to snatch up the other man’s gun in a sharp, sudden movement. Ameera flinches. Q doesn’t. Mr Bond turns the gun over in his hands and something slides out of the grip, which he then puts in his pocket before tossing the gun back on the ground. Then he reaches in to his inner pocket and pulls out a slim wallet that he flips open to show them. “I’ll explain to Mr Labelle that it was my fault, and I’ll pay for all the damages incurred.”

It’s all bureaucratic, official stuff, and the badge in the wallet says MI6 and Q stares. “You’re a spy. A real life spy. Actually.”

A ghost of Mr Bond’s usual smile hovers around his mouth. “Actually. And I’m sorry for making you a target by coming here so often.”

“Don’t stop,” Q says before he can stop himself. The sentiment is a stupid one, a selfish one, a crazy one, given what’s just happened, apparently as a result of Mr Bond’s interest in their shop. He still hears himself say, “I’d miss you.”

Everything about Mr Bond softens, so suddenly and completely that it’s like he becomes a different person in the blink of an eye. 

“I’d miss you, too,” he says and it’s all far too fond and intimate for a couple of people who have only ever met on the odd occasion in this little tailor’s shop.

Ameera’s hand slips into Q’s and she squeezes it. Q looks at her and thinks about the first phone call after she did Mr Bond’s fitting, thinks about Roxy calling Mr Bond his lover, thinks about Mr Bond looking for him when he came in.

“Could I take you to dinner, to make up for it?” Mr Bond steps towards the counter before Q can finish processing everything.

“Go on,” Ameera whispers, and pushes Q forwards, until he stumbles into Mr Bond’s chest. Strong arms wrap around him and he sags, letting himself be held up.

A noise erupts from his throat that he thinks might be a sob, although his face is dry, and then he shakes again in something close to laughter.

“Do you even have an intact suit to wear to dinner?”

Mr Bond pulls him back, so he can watch Q’s face and Q watches his mouth as it curls up into a grin.

“I’m sure I can find something halfway decent.”

**Author's Note:**

> Keep notes:  
> \--as usual this was supposed to be about 600 words and got out of hand  
> \--are the sewers named after kingsman characters? maybe so  
> \--I took the name Jamal from Kingsmen but shout out to my actual friend Jamal who went straight from a wowcher advert to the west end  
> \--my boy is such a useless gay like Bond says he likes his tie and Q nearly punches him in the dick  
> \--Q is a little bit of a snob about suits


End file.
